Gotham Shorts
by OnyxSphinx
Summary: A collection of short Gotham fics. Ratings vary.
1. Chapter 1

**_Title: Early, Lazy Mornings_**

 ** _Rating: K_**

* * *

The shrill, piercing beeps from her phone's alarm rouse Jaimie from her pleasant slumber. Beside her, Osvalda whines and buries herself closer into Jaimie's side, while Ed bolts upright, eyes wild.

"Lie down, love," Jaimie mumbles softly, fingers reaching out to gently tug the other's sleeve. She relaxes, settles back down, and Jaimie takes a moment to admire the way the brunette's hair lays against the white of the pillow, the hair that's usually kept in an elegant bob fanned out messily on the cotton. Of the three womens', Ed's hair is closest to red, something that is clearly visible when a light shines on it. On the other hand, Osvalda's dark hair is in a french braid that falls across her shoulder and onto the bed, while Jaimie imagines her own short blonde hair is sticking up every-which-way, as it is wont to do in the mornings.

Unfortunately, just as she's about to drift back off, the alarm sounds again, drawing her- and her bedmates- back to the land of Wide-Awake.

"I thought I told you to set it so it doesn't go off on weekends," Osvalda grumps, green eyes blinking in the sunlight.

"Sorry," Jaimie apologises, sheepishly. Ed just shakes her head at their disagreement and climbs out from under a mountain of blankets, but not before Jaimie pulls her down for a chaste kiss.

Ed wrinkles her nose, bats at her. "Eww, morning breath," she complains, and gets out of the bed, sliding on a pair of slippers, and goes to the bathroom to wash her face.

"Where's _my_ kiss?" Osvalda pouts, and Jaimie chuckles slightly.

"C'mere, you," she mumbles, draws the other in close and peppers her face with kisses.

Osvalda squaks in surprise, flails for a moment, and her wings fan out, smoky plumage silvery in the morning sunlight. "No fair!" she protests, but after a minute, settles down, a hum of pleasure in the back of her throat as Jaimie cards her fingers through the feathers.

A small cough draws them back to reality. It's Ed, an amused smirk adorning her face. "I suggest we use combs," she says, a bottle of feather-oils in one hand and a set of combs in the other.

Osvalda agrees heartily, claiming that Jaimie's fingers will tangle the feathers.

"Hey!" Jaimie defends, "That's not what you were saying a minute ago!" Ed laughs at the look of betrayal on her face.

Nevertheless, she grabs the bottle of oils and starts rubbing them into Osvalda's feathers, the mob Queen laying on her stomach, wings splayed across the bed, the tips hanging off the side. Then, after Ed goes through the feathers with the wide-toothed comb, Jaimie uses the fine-toothed one to carefully brush each feather. By the end of the process, Osvalda's practically melted into the mattress, mumbling incoherently and practically purring.

Reluctantly, she rises and Ed takes her place, presenting her green plumes for the other two. She rolls her shoulders, and Jaimie presses a kiss between her shoulder-blades.

She catches Osvalda's expression and pecks her cheek. "See? No need to be jealous."

"Hurry up," Ed whines, "My feathers are dry and my muscles are sore." Osvalda grins lewdly.

"Oz, I know what face you're making," Ed warns, muffledly. Osvalda rearranges her face, eyes wide and expression innocent.

"Who, me?" Osvalda asks, and Ed just groans something indecipherable, but which is most likely another plea to hurry up. Jaimie rolls her eyes at their antics and begins to massage the oils in, and after a moment, Osvalda follows suit. Slowly, Ed relaxes, sighing as they comb through her feathers, making sure each is in its proper place. Eventually, she rises, shakes her wings slightly.

Jaimie tries to ignore the way her girlfriends' gaze settles on her, uncomfortable. "My feathers are fine, really," she protests weakly, but to no avail.

"Come on, Liebchen," Osvalda coaxes, gently herding her to the bed. Once she surrenders and lays down, Ed leans over and massages her shoulders and under her shoulder-blades, an action that sends a pleasant tingling through her, and her wings unfurl. Even now, knowing that she won't be spat at for her wings, she chokes back an instinctive whimper.

"My beautiful raven," Ed whispers, and Jaimie relaxes, remembers that, no matter what, Ed and Oz aren't going to judge her- if anything, they pile her with affection and adore her dark, inky-black plumage.

Within minutes, her girlfriends' ministrations turn Jaimie into a purring puddle, their careful, attentive actions leaving her practically senseless.

Life is good.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Title: Blood and Porcelain**_

 _ **Rating: T**_

* * *

"I'm certain you can be made to see our side of it, Penguin," the man simpers. He's a small, balding man, a new mobster of no consequence to her, but he's contacted her, asking for a loan.

The hairs on the back of Osvalda's neck stand up, and she keeps her guard up. "I think you should watch yourself, lest you find yourself dead in a gutter," she warns, and the man- Chad? Frank? something common like that- smiles slimily.

"Oh, I'm sure that when you see what I have to offer, you'll be quite willing to help me," he says in a tone that Osvalda supposes he thinks is supposed to be confident, but actually comes off as an unsettling whine. He strides to the other side of the room, revealing with a flourish what is an attempt at a hidden door. "Follow me," he calls, opening the door, and Osvalda follows, cautiously.

When her eyes adjust to the darkness, she bites back a growl. Jaimie and Ed are bound, back-to-back, in two metal chairs. The sight makes her blood boil, a raging, roaring torrent, red overtaking her vision. She takes a step forward, but one of Frank's men is already at their side, presses a blade to Ed's neck. A thin line of red appears, and blood beads on the knife.

"Ah, ah, ah," Frank tuts, "That just won't do. One step closer, and, well." He chuckles darkly. "Let's just say that your dearest Riddler won't open those pretty brown eyes of hers again." Osvalda halts midstep.

"Better," he smiles, claps his hands. "Now, take a seat. We have some things to discuss. And remember- every time you refuse, that knife will dig in a _little_ deeper." Osvalda reluctantly sits down at the desk in the corner of the room, across from Frank.

She grips her umbrella tightly, nods almost imperceptibly towards Ed and Jaimie. Frank natters on about something. Out of the corner of her eye, Osvalda watches in trepidation as Jaimie moves her arms slightly, slowly loosening the bonds so Ed can inch away from the blade. As soon as she's far enough, Ed headbutts the goon under the chin, making him reel back. Osvalda leaps to her feet, pulling the raven-shaped head of her umbrella off to reveal a small handgun and shoots the goon in one fluid motion.

Ed reaches to where the knife has fallen in her lap and slices through the ropes and Osvalda turns to point the gun at a now terrified Frank. Her finger tightens on the trigger, but stops when Ed pleads, "Can we play with him first? I saw he had a set of knives in the desk drawer."

Jaimie looks up from where she's rubbing at the chafe marks on her wrist, eyes glinting eagerly.

Osvalda caves. "Of course, " says, adoring the way the others' faces light up.

"N- no need f- f- for that," Frank stutters, eyes wide as the three women advance on him.

"Oh, I think it is," Jaimie purrs, pulling out a thin knife from the drawer.

"Don't worry though, you won't die," Osvalda reassures, and stabs him in the shoulder, making him scream. "At least, not yet." Ed joins her, dragging the blade in her hands over the man's skin, making him writhe and spasm, screaming hoarsely. Ed pouts when the man collapses, and Jaimie gives him a poke with the tip of her blade.

He whimpers a bit, and she moves out of the way, letting Osvalda put the man out of his misery. Jaimie swipes her finger along the blade, watches in fascination as the blood runs down her finger, drips off her finger. "It's so... _bright,_ " she breathes, and Ed throws her head back, laughs, a high, manic, excited, _beautiful_ , sound. Osvalda watches, breath catching in her throat, as a stray beam of light catches her face, glinting off the spatters of blood on Ed's face like rubies, shining starkly against Ed's porcelain skin.

Osvalda reaches out hesitant fingers towards Ed's face, caresses her softly. "You're a vision," she breathes, softly, as if afraid that saying it out loud will make her disappear. A soft blush spreads across Ed's cheeks, and she ducks her head.

"Hey, don't hide your face, love," Jaimie admonishes, "It's too pretty for that."

Ed pulls both of them into a hug, buries her face into Jaimie's shoulder. "I love you both," she mumbles, and the warmth spreads through Osvalda.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Title: Infintely**_

 _ **Rating: T**_

* * *

Jim lays on the couch, bathrobe wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His wet hair is flattened against his head, and despite the radiator being cranked up as high as it'll go, the sharp, bitingly cold Gotham winter wind seeps in through the cracks in the window seals and turns his ears and nose cherry-red. He hides his fingers in the fuzzy material and shivers slightly.

The sound of the shower cutting off in the bathroom is quickly followed by the sound of feet hitting the tiles and after a few minutes, Ed emerges, hair adorably spiked up and huddled in his own, emerald green, bathrobe. "Why didn't you grab a blanket?" Ed asks, seeing him shivering on the sofa.

"Too cold," Jim mumbles in response, and Ed shakes his head, fetches a blanket from the bedroom.

"Scoot over," he commands, waiting for Jim to move so he only takes up half of the sofa, before sitting down next to him and spreading the blanket- a black and gold patchwork monstrosity with little green bows on it that Jim had gotten Ed for Christmas the year before because Ed adores things like that- over both of them. Jim gratefully melts into Ed, leeching his warmth. "Cold!" Ed yelps when Jim's toes make contact with his.

Jim chuckles, smacks a sloppy kiss onto the brunet's cheek just to watch the way he squirms at the cold. "Ji-im," Ed whines, "That's not _fair_ , making me choose between getting kissed and being cold!" Jim just smiles, buries his head into Ed's shoulder and lets out a muffled hum of pleasure when the other cards through his hair with slender fingers, tugging softly.

"Guess you'll have to find a way to warm me up, then, won't you, Mister Nygma," Jim murmurs, and Ed chuckles quietly, the sound reverberating in his chest, makes Jim melt like nothing else can.

"C'mere, you," Ed mutters, pulls Jim into his lap and pulls the blanket up over their shoulders and presses a kiss into Jim's hair. Jim blushes, ducks his face into the crook of Ed's neck, his not-so-cold-anymore nose buried in the hollow where Ed's neck meets his collar-bone, the soft, creamy skin still warm from his shower. Ed rubs small circles on his back, massages the knots til all of the muscles are relaxed and Jim is practically plastered to Ed.

It feels good, cuddling together in his- their apartment, something he never felt with Barbara or- in the brief period of time they were together- Leslie. Barbara was always pushing him to share details of his work with her, pressuring him to fit into high-society's mold of the perfect couple while Lee was always analysing him, cataloguing his habits and quirks and, ultimately, trying to get him to leave a job that was his life for an idealized, white-picket-fence-two-point-five-children-and-a-dog life.

Ed...Ed is perfect like that, doesn't try to change Jim to suit his idealization of perfection or critique his every action or try and force him to talk about things. Ed appreciates him for who he is, sits by his side and comforts him when he wakes, screaming in the middle of the night, visions of blood and death and war at the surface of his mind, who doesn't mind Jim's awkwardness, who pulls faces in the mirror for them to laugh at, whose brilliant mind and love of riddles blows him away, leaves him in awe of the wondrous, kind, caring man who is Edward Nygma.

"What're you thinking about?" Ed asks, starting Jim out of the trance he's fallen into.

Jim blinks, admires the way the early evening sunlight filters through the window and across Ed's face, highlighting his chocolaty-brown eyes. "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how much I love you." Ed quirks an eyebrow.

"Really?" he asks, " Then how much do you love me?"

"To the moon and back," Jim says, gazing at the other adoringly.

Ed pouts. "Is that all, Detective?"

Jim hums, cants his head. "No, I was wrong, I love you infinitely."

Ed huffs a laugh. "That's illogical, Jim," he says, quoting Spock. "But even so, I find that I, too, love you infinitely." He twines their hands together.

"Kiss?" Jim requests, and Ed complies eagerly, presses his lips to Jim's softly, and at some point, Jim ends up on his back as Ed kisses him harder, more passionately, glasses-frames pushed up his nose as far as they'll, and Jim's hands come up to grasp at Ed's hair for any sort of purchase as Ed ravishes his mouth, pulls small, breathy whimpers from his lips and whispers sweet nothings into his ear, and Jim loses all grasp on reality, melts into a bliss.

Eventually, Ed sits back, hair in a disarray, glasses skewed and lips swollen, eyes gleaming. Jim can only imagine what he looks like, panting with imprints of Ed's glasses-frames, lips sore from where Ed bit them, small crescent nail-indents on his neck where Ed dug his fingers into the sensitive skin at the base of his neck and his hair, which probably looks like a bird's nest. "Again?" he asks, hoarsely, and Ed grins, pins his arms to his sides, and leans down to capture his mouth once again.

His lips taste like cherry chapstick and those caramel chocolates he loves so much, and he kisses Jim like it's their first, their last, and everything in between, like the world will end if he stops, like he'll die, and he kisses over Jim's cheekbone and trails kisses down Jim's neck, and nips along his collar-bone and Jim's hands scrabble to anchor him, white spots clouding his vision because he thinks that if he doesn't, he'll float right out of his body.

Ed pulls back slightly and Jim whines at the loss of contact, unable to form coherent words, bares his neck in invitation, and Ed pulls his hand up, places feather-light kisses on each knuckle, then the other hand before he pins both arms above Jim's head with one hand and scratches a nail down Jim's neck and the pleasure and pain conflict and Jim whimpers in the back of his throat. Ed leans over and kisses where his nail cut too deep and drew blood before he reclaims Jim's mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Title: You see but you do not observe**_

 _ **Rating: K**_

* * *

 _One: Cherry chapstick and perfectly manicured nails._

The first thing Jim notices about Edward Nygma, the young- well, in his twenties, same as Jim- forensics scientist with slender fingers and a nervous smile are his perfectly manicured nails and tendency to put on cherry chapstick when he's thinking, head bent over a file as he absent-mindedly taps a six-four beat.

It's not unusual for the upper echelons to have their nails trimmed and buffed at a mani/pedi spa, but those places charge quadruple digits per hour, and that's far above anyone in the GCPD's pay grade, and the fact that, no matter what sort of state the rest of him is in, Ed's nails are always perfect leads Jim to believe that he must do them himself.

The chapstick, though, is more unusual- it's something that, Jim knows from personal experience, almost always leads to bullying and slurs thrown. What's even more interesting is that in Gotham, if you're a certain type of person, chapstick is a sort of code- earl-grey for polyamory and cherry for bisexuality, to name a few. This can easily be explained away, though, as Jim highly doubts that Ed knows about the Code. He probably just buys whatever chapstick happens to be in stock, unknowing of any double meaning. Jim can easily believe this- Ed is as much of a workaholic as he is, and Jim once ran into him- quite literally- at two am drinking a cup of cold tea, which he then dumped catsup into, having, in his sleep-deprived state mistaken it for creamer.

This doesn't stop Jim from falling over himself, nerves at an all-time high, when the most-definitely-straight subject of his affections is anywhere in his vicinity.

* * *

 _Two: Kristen Kringle._

Kristen Kringle is the bane of Jim's existence. Oh, she's nice enough, polite and charming, but she has one thing that makes the green-eyed monster that is envy flare in Jim's ribcage: Ed's affections. It's public GCPD secret that Edward Nygma has a hopeless crush on Kringle, who, unbeknownst to most, is actually dating Officer Dougherty. To make matters worse, Ed- who is his friend now- often mopes to him.

"What can I do to make her notice me?" he asks Jim one day, and Jim resists the urge to either bang his head against the wall or kill Kristen Kringle. The worst part is that Kristen uses Ed without guilt, and Ed is too infatuated with her to see it. If she were single and nicer to Ed, Jim would be doing everything in his power to get them together, no matter what his heart feels, because in the end, Ed's happiness is more important to him than his own.

As it is, he just grunts and listens as Ed continues to lament.

* * *

 _Three: Cats._

Eventually, they somehow wind up becoming flatmates. It's a nice, domestic thing, being able to watch as Ed putters around the kitchen, muttering under his breath as he opens and closes various cupboards, looking for Gods know what. It's all fine, until-

Until Jim comes home to find Ed curled up on the sofa with a blanket, a small, grey kitten in his lap.

"Oh, Gods no Ed," Jim mumbles, "Tell me I'm dreaming."

"He was cold and wet and hiding in the fire-escape, can we please keep him?" Ed's eyes are wide, and Jim can't say no to that face.

"Fine," he sighs, and Ed's face lights up.

Somewhere along the line, they wind up adopting a second cat, who Ed names Patroclus who joins Achilles, the grey tom, in his box in the corner. There's something about cats that makes Ed lose his usual awkwardness, and maybe that's why Jim doesn't protest when Ed brings home the third kitten.

* * *

 _Four: Family_

Ed is usually bubbly, often spouting off random facts and riddles, but one day Jim walks into the forensic scientist's lab to find him hunched in his chair, tears trailing down his cheeks, a bruise on his cheek and a half-healed cut below his eye.

"Ed!" Jim exclaims, drops his papers on a desk and rushes to his side. "What happened?" Ed shakes his head wildly, leans against him, and Jim wraps his arms around the other, waiting for Ed's quiet, choked sobs to die down. "Hey, hey, hey," he comforts, "It's okay, Ed, you're okay."

He wonders who did this to Ed, and there's a rush of rage that anyone could do this to him-Ed may be socially awkward and miss some social cues, but he's sweet, kind, caring, funny, and intelligent. Whoever did this to him is a disgusting monster, and deserves to die.

Eventually, Ed raises his head, draws in a shaky breath, and looks at Jim, eyes red. "M-my father decided...decided t-to vis-visit," he says, shakily, and Jim draws in a sharp breath. Ed's father is...well, he's not a pleasant man. When Ed was a child, his father mocked and bullied him relentlessly, leaving him with severe trust and self-worth issues. If his father is in town...Jim cuts that thought off. "H-he said...said you were just- just using m-me-" Ed's voice breaks, and he buries his head in Jim's shoulder, tears seeping through the fabric.

"He's a terrible, terrible man, and a filthy, filthy, liar," Jim whispers fiercely, "He doesn't want to believe that you could ever be happy without him, or that anyone one could love you- but he is so, so wrong, Ed. I've seen you- you've changed, Ed. Your smiles light up the sky, and you love what you do." _And I love you_ , Jim almost says, but he knows that Ed is still mooning after Kristen, and anyway, Jim has no right to drop something like that on him in his current state.

Then, he realizes what he's just though. _Oh no,_ he thinks faintly.

* * *

 _+1(Ed): Riddles and Tea and kisses_

Ed observes as Jim makes his way around the apartment, sips his cup of tea from under the mountain of blankets Jim had piled on him the night before when he came back from running errands to find Ed asleep on the couch, book slowly slipping from his hands. Jim, hair mussed with sleep- _it looks so soft_ , Ed thinks _, I'd love to run my fingers through it_ \- pours tablespoons of coffee grounds and hits the coffee machine's on button. His eyes are half-lidded with sleep and he yawns, think, pink lips pulling back to reveal perfect white teeth.

"What is hardest to hold despite being lighter than a feather?"

Jim's question breaks him out of his trance. "Breath," Ed answers dutifully.

"I was afraid you were going to go blue if you didn't breathe," Jim jokes, takes a gulp of coffee and sighs in bliss. "What's on your mind?"

 _Your beauty,_ his traitorous mind supplies. He's well aware of his own less than platonic feelings for the detective, which he isn't about to act on. Ever.

"Really?" Jim asks, surprised, and shoot, he just said that out loud, didn't he.

Ed fumbles with his glasses, blushes, "I can explain-!"

"Stop me if I've read the situation wrong," Jim asks, and he wasn't that close a minute ago, was he? Soon, Jim is close enough that it nearly short-circuits Ed's mind. And then, the last few centimetres are closed, and Jim leans to press a chaste kiss to his lips, and Ed doesn't protest- after all, why would he? The morning is already going much better than he could ever have hoped.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Title: Smol Oblivious Riddler**_

 _ **Rating: K+**_

* * *

"...forty grand," some higher-ranked gangster is reporting to the man at the head of the table- James "The Executioner" Gordon, King of Gotham's underworld. Ed isn't really paying attention, instead mentally mapping out how to perform a heist of a famous, multi-million dollar portrait that looks incredibly similar to him. He wants to hang it up in his living room, but he doesn't want to get caught, which means he'll have to outsource to a forger.

The only reason he's at this meeting instead of just paying his...ah, taxes to the King via a tax-collector like the other lower-level criminals is that he may or may not have accidentally killed the tax-collector responsible for his sector- though who can blame him? He had a sign clearly displayed on his safehouse's door warning that anyone who entered would die, gruesomely by his hand, so it's not really his fault- and as such, he knows that, if he wants to survive, he'll have to seek audience with the King, beg for forgiveness and such. He'll probably also have to pay a heavy apology sum, but, well, ç'est ce que ç'est.

Eventually, though, the meeting comes to an end, the others filing out, and amongst the mess, Gordon disappears. Bridget "Firefly" Pike and her partners, Selina "Cat" Kyle, and Ivy "Poison Ivy" Pepper leave last, chatting animatedly about something or other, and they pull the door closed behind them, leaving Ed awkwardly sitting in the shadows. "Excuse me, sir, you must go now," there's a hand on his shoulder, insisting.

"Ah, sorry," he apologizes, "But I actually have an appointment?" The woman, short blond hair cut in an elegant bob, raises an eyebrow disbelievingly.

"Alright," she says doubtfully, "Follow me." She leads him out and down a hallway to an unmarked door and cracks it open. "Jim, you have someone here to see you!"

"Well, send them in, Barbara," comes the reply and the woman- Barbara Kean, he remembers, co-owner of _Sirens_ \- rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath but lets him in without- much- more complaint.

It takes a minute for Ed's eyes to adjust to the unexpected brightness- usually, things are so dimly lit- but when they do, his eyes settle on the large wing-backed chair facing the fireplace. James Gordon turns to face him, and Ed instinctively tips his hat and dips a small bow.

"M'lord," Ed says, respectfully.

"Oz, would you mind getting us some coffee?" Gordon asks the man by his side. "You know how I like it," he says, and a small smile blooms on the raven-haired man's face.

"Of course, James," he returns and makes his way past Ed.

"What is your name?" Gordon's question pulls him away from his admirings of the paintings above the fireplace.

"Edward Nygma, sir," he says, fiddles with the brim of his hat. "I, oh dear, how do I put this," he wonders, "Tom Dougherty, he, ah, well, sir, Isort'vemay'vekilledhim?" it comes out in a rush and the room's silent.

Then, Gordon doubles over, shaking, and gasping. Ed wonders if he's having an asthma attack, but no, the tears in his eyes and the way his lips twitch would indicate that he's actually laughing.

Gordon sits back up after a bit, eyes twinkling. "I'm so- so sorry, Mister Nygma, it's just," he wipes an eye, grinning, "Good lord, I absolutely _loathed_ that man- as a matter of fact, I really should be thanking _you_."

Ed is floored. "So...you don't want to kill me?" he asks.

" _Kill you_?" Gordon repeats, "No- of course not! Actually," he snaps his fingers, "I should hire you!"

"I believe your Chief of Staff was recently _dismissed_ ," the man from earlier speaks, and Ed wonders how long he's been standing by the door, a tray of coffee and sandwiches in hand.

Gordon grins once again. "How does that sound, Mister Nygma? Would you like to be my Chief of Staff?"

Ed thinks about it for a minute before shrugging. "Sure, why not? It's not like I have anything better to do."

* * *

Somehow, in eight months Ed goes from being Mister Nygma, Chief of Staff to just Ed, and James Gordon from Mister Executioner or sir to Jim. During that time, Ed familiarizes himself- more than he already has, which is a good amount- with the underworld, gathers little bits of useful information on anyone and everyone, which goes in with the bi-weekly reports he delivers to Jim.

Oswald is a Godsend during that time- helping Ed to acclimate, but mostly just mother-henning and slowly but surely improving Ed's wardrobe. It starts when Ed has a minor meltdown- he's slated to appear, for reasons unknown, along with Jim at a charity event in three days, and all he owns are jumpers, cardigans, bowler hats, and beige and brown slacks.

"Oh God, Oswald, what am I going to _do_?" he moans, staring at the ceiling, "I can't very well appear at a formal event like _this_!" he gestures to himself morosely. Oswald mumbles something under his breath that sounds like 'I doubt James would care' but Ed must've misheard him. After all, Ed needs to prove to Jim that he's useful, and one can hardly be of any use if one can't even _dress_ properly.

"Right, we're going shopping," Oswald announces the next morning, plying a sleepy Ed with coffee as Jim looks on, amused, if absolutely clueless about what's going on.

Oswald ushers Ed to his room, orders him to dress in the most formal manner he can, and then, along with Victor Zsasz, drags him off to various shops. At the end of the day, Ed feels like he's been measured within an inch of his life, poked with pins, and fitted for a couple dozen outfits, and to top it off, Oswald insists that his hats look atrocious with all of the outfits, and announces that, from now on, he's banned from wearing them in public.

"But-!" Ed protests and Oswald shushes him while Victor looks on in amusement.

It does pay off, though, as when The Day comes, he dons a nice green suit, tie, and black blazer. Ed is nervous, stomach rolling, and he's hyperaware of the way the custom-made clothes rub- softly, softly- against his skin. He stands outside Jim's door, nervously tugging at his tie despite Oswald's earlier assurances that he looked, quote, "marvellously dashing." The door opens to reveal Jim. He's wearing a black dress shirt, black pants, polished black shoes and a black leather jacket, hair slicked back, looking like he's stepped straight- though straight might not be the correct word, the tabloids would argue- right out of a fashion magazine.

"You look nice," he comments, presses a kiss to Ed's cheek. That's another thing that's new, but not uncomfortable. Ed knows that Jim is a tactile person who loves to shower those close to him with affection, and he figures that this is just another way Jim shows affection. Plus, it's not as if it's uncomfortable- on the contrary, it makes Ed feel warm, valued, wanted.

"Thank you, Mister Gordon, as do you- I wouldn't be surprised if the women fall over themselves for you," he teases, and for a second Jim's expression grows stormy before smoothing out.

"Nah, they wouldn't dare," Jim replies. Ed assumes he means that Jim is to busy to pursue any sort of relationship. "Shall we?" Jim offers his arm and Ed flashes a grin, slips his arm through Jim's.

His stomach does cartwheels, but he no longer feels like throwing up.

* * *

Later, they stumble back, giggling semi-drunkenly, Ed far moreso because, no matter what he insists, he has a very low alcohol tolerance and after his second glass of wine- somewhere around midnight, he's surprised he held out that long- and Jim, who's just this side of tipsy suggests they play Go Fish, but every time someone gets a match, the other has to drink.

Ed blinks, considers it for a moment, asks, "Don't you need at least three people to play Go Fish?"

Jim opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. "You have a point," he admits, "But who would play Go Fish with us at quarter to one in the morning?"

"Oswald would," Ed states matter-of-factly, "And he drinks to rival you."

Jim's face lights up, delighted, and he shouts, "Edward Nygma, you are a genius! Go get Oz while I find our deck of cards."

That's how, five minutes later, Ed knocks on Oswald's door and props himself up against the door-frame to wait. Minutes- or hours, Ed can't tell- later, the door opens and there's a startled "oof!". Oh. Well, apparently he was leaning on the door, not the door-frame.

He smiles sunnily up at Oswald, who's caught him before he hit the ground. "Come play Go Fish with us?" he begs, widening his eyes.

"Why the hell not," Oswald says, and Ed grins and smacks a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

"You're the best," he cheers and skips off back to the living room, dragging Oswald behind him.

Somewhere along the line someone- possibly Oswald, probably Jim- actually looks up the rules of the game and notes that whoever gets a match has to kiss the people drinking.

By this point, Ed is too drunk to care if it's actually a rule and simply obligingly presses a kiss to Oswald's, then Jim's lips when he gets a match. Once they use the entire deck with a two-way tie between Oswald and Ed, the bottle of vodka- Oswald's choice- is half done and Ed is having a hard time standing.

Jim, who's slightly less drunken, shakes his head and picks them both up, carrying them to Oswald's bedroom, which has the largest bed, and settles Ed down between him and Oswald, who takes Ed rolling over onto him less than kindly.

The next thing Ed knows, his alcohol-saturated mind's urging him to make out with Oswald after the bird-like man hits him with a pillow, then with Jim. It's not unpleasant- actually, scratch that, it's very pleasant- as is what follows, as well as very stress-relieving.

* * *

It happens five months later during tea. Generally, Ed just ignores whatever commotion Oswald or Jim make, but this time, he doesn't.

Because he was just proposed to, twice. Which can only mean one thing: he's unknowingly been in a relationship with not one, but two people. Ed knows his people skills suck, but up until that moment, he frankly had no idea just how bad at social cues he was.

Ed breath stutters to a halt and his mind panics. "Forty-eight hours," he asks, "Give me forty-eight hours."

Six hours later and, after looking through the tabloids from the last half year, it would appear that the public and the press were both convinced they were dating. Well.

He calls Barbara, who picks up on the second ring. "What's up, Ed?" she greets.

"Barbara, am I gay?" he asks, words spilling from his mouth like water down a waterfall.

"What," she asks, deadpan, "Are you talking about? You're dating both Jim and Ozzie- I'd be surprised if there was a single straight molecule in your body."

Ed laughs hysterically. "They just proposed to me, Barbara!" he says.

"Congrats!" she exclaims, "Am I invited?"

"Barbara," he says quietly, "I didn't even know we were dating."

There's a burst of laughter at the other end. "Sorry Ed," she apologizes. "But do you love them?"

He thinks on it for a moment before his eyes grow wide. "Barbara, I'm in love with Oswald and Jim," he says disbelievingly. "What do I do?"

"Say yes, you dork," she replies fondly, and hangs up, leaving Ed holding the phone loosely. He calls a cab, mind made up. He will say yes, but first, he needs rings.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Title: Concussions and cuteness**_

 _ **Rating: T**_

* * *

He is silence, he is grace...he's fallen flat on his face. The gun clatters to the ground and Jim groans. To make matters worse, he's fallen from the roof of a building- rather, tripped and fell. For the second he plummets through the air, he thinks, _So this is it, then, the end of Jim Gordon, world's greatest assassin_ before he remembers that it's a two-story building and scolds himself for being overly dramatic.

He quickly tucks his head, crosses his arms and relaxes his muscles, rolls on impact- is that his shoulder that just popped like it got dislocated? Whatever it was, now the upper left half of his body hurts like _hell_ \- and spreads out on the grass, stares up into the sky dazedly.

 _"Oh my God_! Are you alright?" someone's asking, and there's worried brown eyes and square, half-rimmed glasses. Jim blinks, waits for the face to fade into focus, and _shit_ it's just his luck that the person who is trying to make sure he's okay is Edward Nygma, the man who he's been sent to assassinate.

"Not really," he mumbles and passes out.

When he comes to, he's laid out on a sofa in a small apartment covered in a quilt, head propped up by what must be four different pillows. He makes to pull it off, but there's someone by his side who stills his hands. "You need to stay warm," Nygma admonishes, "You might very well have a mild concussion- here, I made you a cup of tea and some acetaminophen," Nygma says, pushes a warm mug into his hand as well as a small box. "Wait, no, that came out wrong," he says, flustered, "I didn't _make_ the acetaminophen, um." He smiles awkwardly, adjusts his glasses. "Edward Nygma at your service."

Jim refrains from saying _I know_ because he'll probably sound like some sort of stalker, when really, he isn't- he just happens to have a file full of information on the man, which when one puts it like that, now that he thinks about it, _does_ make him sound like a stalker, but really, he's just a dedicated assassin.

"James," he settles on instead, because he may be a contract killer, but his mother raised him to be polite.

Nygma's face lights up. "Well, now I know your name, may I inquire as to how you fell off of my apartment roof?"

 _Oh, nothing, just trying to_ kill _you_. "Birdwatching," he lies. "I was trying to get photos of some doves on the ledge, and, well, I guess I got to close to the edge," he laughs sheepishly.

"Quite a story, my friend," Nygma's eyes twinkle. "Rest- I have errands to run."

* * *

Somehow over the course of half a month, Nygma becomes just Ed. Many of Jim's days are spent dozing, but when he does awaken, he'll make meals for the both of them- Ed's schedule as a politician running for Mayor is hectic, and it's the least Jim can do to repay the man.

There's also the matter of Jim's very-small, teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy crush. Jim isn't about to kid himself- probably half of Gotham's women- and a fair number of men- have what could be called celebrity crushes on him, and really, Jim can't blame them, because _damn_ those cheekbones could cut diamond.

The entire situation leaves Jim feeling hysterical and fully out of his depth, as well as with a new appreciation for the age-old assassin's adage about not familiarizing one's self with the target beyond what's absolutely necessary. In the end, everything reaches a tipping point on Friday night of the fourth week.

They're eating stir-fry, and Ed's complaining about the other candidates. "Honestly," he huffs, "I'm surprised that none of them have tried to kill me yet." It makes something in Jim snap, guilt cascades through his carefully built emotional barriers. Here he is, sitting with the man he was attempting to assassinate, and the entire situation makes him feel dirty, the guilt like oil on his skin, and he wants to scratch at it till he bleeds because then, maybe, he might be able to start atoning.

He sets his fork down, stands, ignores Ed's look of concern and mutters, "I don't feel too good," before quickly hiding in the bathroom. He sits on the floor, back against the door, pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his head in his hands and cries as quietly as he can.

"James, are you alright? Do you want me to get you something?" Ed's voice draws him out of his mind.

He locks the door and faces the mirror, takes in his puffy red eyes and says, strangledly, "Y-yeah, I'm fine." He turns on the water, splashes his face, and dries it, trying to look like he hasn't been crying for the last ten minutes and opens the door.

Ed stands on the other side of the threshold, adjusts his glasses. "Was it something I said?" he asks worriedly. "If it was, I apologize- I'm not the best at socio-emotional cues."

Jim takes a deep, grounding breath. "No, it's not your fault at all," he smiles, "I was just kind of stressed- your competitors really seem to be out to get you. I'm just…worried for you."

"Oh," Ed says softly, "I'm…I'm touched." He hesitates for a moment. "Would you- would you like a hug?" he asks tentatively, and, when Jim nods, wraps long arms around him, pulling him into a warm embrace. They stay there for what might be mere minutes or many long hours, but eventually, Jim pulls away.

He swallows nervously. "I…I need to tell you something," he says quietly, draws a breath. "I haven't exactly been truthful- I said I was birdwatching but actually I was hired by one of your political rivals to assassinate you," he admits, makes to stand. "I understand if you hate me- feel free to put a bounty on my head. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

There's silence, and Jim's halfway to the door before a hand on his wrist halts him "Well then, if you're such a great assassin, you must know I'm hardly innocent," Ed huffs. "Ever heard of the Riddler? That was me," he says. "Do you really think I, Edward Nygma, would hold your actions against you?"

Jim turns, gapes at the man, who smiles. "Well, now we've got that over with, would you be willing to go out with me- like a date, maybe coffee or ice-cream?" Ed asks, grinning.

Jim's ears redden as he valiantly tries not to blush. "Y- yeah, that sounds nice," he responds.

Perhaps he should thank the apartment's roof.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Title: Stone Cold_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

* * *

Strobe lights pulse, their bright, blinding white glow searing Ed's eyes as he stands awkwardly to the side of the dance floor, feeling more out of place than usual.

In the middle of the dance floor, laughing as they sway to the beat of the music, Oswald Cobblepot and his date, James Gordon. The lights cast, just so, accentuating Oswald's high cheekbones and the eyeshadow that highlights his eyes. They're a particular shade of green- spring leaves and sunshine on a canvas of silver-grey. Ed remembers his own brief period of time spent dating him. It was a hasty affair, frantic kisses and explosive tempers, and Ed too caught up in his own petty jealousies when Oswald would meet friends without him.

He pulls his phone out and stares at it blankly, wondering what had been the catalyst that had sparked their breakup. Really, though, looking back on it, he can see all of their faults when then he could only see the brightness of their twin stars, orbiting each other on a destructive path. And Oswald is happier with Jim anyway- that, Ed will grant the blonde.

When he was with Ed, Oswald seemed to be distracted from real life, too caught up trying to please Ed that he nearly wound up erasing himself, whereas, with Jim, his whole countenance lights up. At some point, the song's been changed from slow waltz music to something louder- it seems familiar, too.

Ah- it's a pop song. _Stone Cold_ by the singer Demi Lavato. It's oddly fitting, and as the last notes fade into the air, Ed takes a brief moment to glance at the happy couple before smiling sadly, and slips out the club door.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Title: A tale all our own, and that nobody else knows it makes it even sweeter_**

 ** _Rating: K+_**

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot is a small boy, slim and not quite yet accustomed to his own limbs; he tries to avoid confrontations, truly, but the school bullies always corner him somehow.

Generally, Jim doesn't pay attention to those on the fringes of the school's hierarchy, but Oswald, with his wide green eyes and his pale face and already high cheekbones framed by raven black hair, has always been an anomaly.

"I brought you chocolates," Jim murmurs as he sits down next to the other. It doesn't elicit a response, and Oswald remains with his back to Jim. Jim scoots closer and catches the sharp intake of breath and the small whimper of pain. "Oh Oz," he whispers, "what did they do to you?"

The bruises contrast darkly with his pale skin and Jim feels anger well up within him.

Oswald shifts. "It's nothing."

"That's not 'nothing'," Jim argues, pulling out the small bottle of ibuprofen he keeps hidden in his pencil pouch. The bottle, while only two months old, is, alarmingly, half empty. Oswald wordlessly swallows the two pills Jim hands him, shrugging slightly.

"It's not like I can fight back."

Jim frowns. "That's not true- you might not be as strong physically, but everyone has secrets that can be used against them. Once you know their secrets, you can make them dance for you like puppets."

"Why, James Gordon, are you suggesting I blackmail them?" Oswald asks, smiling slightly. Jim shrugs.

"Hypothetically."

Oswald grins at him, cooes, "Aww, you're such a softy- first, you bring me chocolates on Valentine's, then you encourage me to blackmail other students."

"Shut up," Jim mutters and hides his face, blushing.

Oswald grins cockily; the ibuprofen must be working. "Make me," he dares.

Jim resists the urge, not wanting to get in trouble with the staff, but the same cannot be said for later.

Yes, their relationship may seem to have come out of the blue for Gotham's citizens when the Penguin declares himself King of Gotham and Captain Gordon, Gotham's white knight, pledges allegiance to him, joining to form the most powerful couple in the city, but for them, it has been far longer.

In the end, it all comes back to the high-school sweethearts, Jim and Oz, and the bond between them.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Title: Ash_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

* * *

The scape is familiar: it's their apartment. Ed can't remember when they moved in together- as a matter of fact, as with so many things regarding Isabella, Ed can't remember much of anything.

In his hands, a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of fine wine; it's their six month anniversary. Ed is fairly certain that their anniversary isn't for another month- or perhaps it was last week? The pills he takes, prescribed by the doctor Isabella encouraged him to visit, make time hard.

His mind feels like it's turning spongey, formerly edict memory full of holes, but he reasons that it's probably just a side-effect of the medication; after all, Isabella knows what's good for him. He knocks on the door, wonders what Isabella will look like when she sees Ed. Perhaps she'll grace him with that smile of hers.

When there's no answer, he roots around his pockets for his keys and unlocks the door softly. Isabella isn't happy when he's loud.

The sight that greets him sends his mind reeling: Isabella's practically sitting in a taller man's lap, pawing at his clothes. He's already pulling off her undershirt, and his pupils are blown large, lust filled. Ed stand, rooted to the spot, and the keys slip out of his hand, falling to the hardwood floor with a clatter.

Isabella startles, pulls herself up to see who it is. "Oh, it's you." The annoyance in her tone is clear.

"I-Isabella?" Ed stutters, and she sighs, irritated, and turns to the other man.

"I'm sorry, Alan, give me a moment." Her eyes bore into Ed's soul. He's not sure how to feel; the drugs mute emotions. Instead, he just feels numb.

"Nashton," Isabella bites out, and all is dark.

When Ed opens his eyes, he's lying in bed alone. He gets up, pats himself down: pyjamas. It must've been a dream.

Before he heads to Oswald's- he's the man's Chief of staff; being late is not an option- he asks Isabella if she knows anyone named Alan.

She just stares at him, confused. "No, why?"

"Nothing." He shrugs, and ignores the bouquet of flowers on the ground. It's hardly the first time he's hallucinated.

Oswald shoots him worried looks the entire day, and Ed feels bad for making his best friend worry about him.

"Ed…" Oswald starts hesitantly, once the meetings are all over and they're having their weekly dinner. "Are you alright?

"Yeah, I- I'm fine." Ed curses the way his voice cracks. It makes him sound pathetic, and he hates seeming pathetic around Oswald, who's always so proud and confident and kind to him; deep down, he's terrified that it's all an act, that Oswald actually hates him and will fire him the second he messes up.

He doesn't want to lose Oswald.

Oswald eyes him sceptically. "Is it something to do with Isabelle- Isabella?"

"N- no!" Ed panics. "No, she hasn't- it's all good! I love her!"

Oswald blinks, slightly taken aback. "I wasn't implying-"

Ed stands abruptly, chair skittering across the floor. "I hav- I have to go n- now."

The doctor, who has him repeat, verbatim, the events of the day, takes one look at him and doubles the dosage of pills per day.

Similar things happen the next two weeks. Ed dreams that Isabella- or Isabelle? Her name flickers like a half-forgotten memory- cheats on him with a man named Alan.

Each week, Oswald asks after him, growing more and more concerned.

And each week, Doctor Livston doubles his dosage of medication.

It all culminates in the third week. By now, Ed's taking twelve pills a day, and he feels lightheaded. The hallucinations, too, are worse; they're incredibly vivid, so much so that Ed almost starts to believe that Alan is real.

He feels constantly fatigued, and he has to hide the way his hands shake, but he manages to convince himself that everything's fine. Until he collapses midspeech, the sharp, cold darkness greeting him.

In the background, detachedly, he can hear Oswald panicking, sirens, and he wonders, briefly, if Oswald's voice has always sounded that nice.

He dreams in snippets of sound and colour. Occasionally, dark shapes loom out of the mostly blank canvas of unconsciousness. Mostly, though, when he does dream, it's of Oswald.

Ed dreams of his green eyes, the way his lips twitch into a crooked smile. He dreams of the first time Oswald looked at him that way, covered in Mr. Leonard's blood, and how stunning he looked. He dreams of their dinners together, and how Oswald supports him. He dreams of intimate moments, when Oswald smiles at him, in awe of Ed's riddles.

When he wakes, the scent of antiseptics hit his nose, and his throat aches, parched. By the side of the hospital bed, slumped over, gripping Ed's limp hand, is Oswald.

The bright lights highlight his sallow skin and sunken eyes, and he stirs. "Ed! You're awake! Thank the gods- I was so worried when you collapsed, and then they said you'd been half drugged to death with infatuation inducing tablets-" Oswald lets out a small, wet sniffle.

"What?" Ed asks, voice scratchy, and Oswald explains. Explains how Isabella was manipulating him, drugging him to be devoted to her to tear him and Oswald apart, explains how she and her husband Alan had concocted the plan after learning from a source of Oswald's intentions to ask Ed out.

"Don't worry, though," Oswald assures him. "I contracted Jim Gordon to… retrieve them. Neither of them is alive any longer."

Ed feels relief. Then, he remembers what Oswald had said. "Did you really intend to ask me out?" When Oswald nods, hesitantly, Ed exclaims, "You prepared an elaborate meal and I bailed on you for someone I'd only just met! Oh, Oswald, I'm so sorry."

Oswald shrugs. "It was hardly your fault- you'd been fed the tablets for weeks before then."

"Still…" Ed says, "That was awful of me."

Oswald laughs humorlessly. "It's not like you'd ever say yes to me- look at me; I'm weak and ugly, and Isabella was beautiful- and distinctly female."

"Hey, that's not true," Ed protests, "I would be honoured if you wanted to date me- as a matter of fact- will you, Oswald, go out with me?"

There's a small gasp, and Oswald whispers, quietly, "Yes," and Ed smiles and raises Oswald's hand to his lips and brushes a soft kiss to the back.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Title: Glitter and Gold_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

* * *

Jim's phone rings, breaking the silence betwixt him and Harvey. Jim checks the caller ID, sighs and mouths, _it's my mom_ to Harvey when the other tilts his head questioningly.

"Hey mom," Jim says, forcing himself to sound cheerful. "What's up?"

"James." His mother's tone is one that makes him dread what she'll say next. "You're coming to Aunt Maggie's tomorrow, aren't you?"

Jim swallows. _Shit_. He's forgotten. "Y-yeah, of course," he says, trying to sound convincing.

His mother's tone brightens. "Oh, that's great sweetie- Arthur's going to be there, you remember him? Melinda's son?" Jim does, sadly. Arthur is the son of a family friend, and his mother has been-

"I thought you two might...hit it off!" she says, brightly. Jim stifles a groan.

"Sorry, mom," he says. "I actually have a boyfriend."

"Oh." She sounds disappointed, which makes sense, seeing as how she's been trying to set them up- unsuccessfully- for ages. "Well, then, I hope you'll bring him with you."

 _Shit._ He groans. _Why did I tell her that?_ Jim doesn't have a boyfriend- hell, he hasn't had any sort of partner since the disastrous relationship with Charles the first year of college, and that ended in flames, to say the least. After that, he finished college, went to law school, and became a D.A. in Gotham.

Harvey, meanwhile, is sat in the chair across the table from Jim, gaping at him. "Close your mouth before you catch flies," Jim snaps irately.

Harvey seems to recover quickly, though, clapping him on the back. "Congrats, Jimbo! Who's the lucky guy?"

Jim sighs. "That's just the problem, Harv. I _don't have_ a boyfriend. And now if I turn up at Aunt Maggie's without a date, my mom will inevitably figure out a way to coerce me into dating Arthur."

Harvey grimaces at the mention of Arthur. "Well, that's..."

"I know," Jim drags a hand through his hair, paces around the small kitchen of his apartment.

Harvey checks the clock, frowns. "I gotta go," he says, apologetically. Jim waves him off. The door makes a slight creak as Harvey opens it, then closes it, leaving Jim alone with his thoughts- and an impending sense of doom.

The sound of the window snapping shut a few hours later draws him back to reality. The sight that meets him makes one eye twitch. There stands Victor Zsasz, cool as cream, drinking milk straight from the bottle, the refrigerator door swinging shut.

"Hi, Jim!" Victor says, flashing him a grin, complete with a small, energetic wave. "What's up?"

Jim feels a migraine coming. "What do you want, Victor," he bites out.

"Can't I just stop by to check on Gotham's finest D.A.?" he asks innocently, shrugs, a graceful roll of his shoulders under the black leather jacket. The assassin wears a lot of black, especially tight black, flush to his skin. It's slightly distracting- not that Jim will ever admit it.

Jim glares at him, trying to banish the unwanted thoughts. "No. And you drank the last of my milk," he says, and Victor stops trying to hide the empty bottle.

"Sorry," Victor shrugs. He doesn't sound sorry at all. "I'll buy you a new bottle."

Jim's eye twitches once again at the thought of the assassin breaking into his house again. It's not that he doesn't trust Victor- he doesn't, but they have...an understanding, of sorts. Jim turns a blind eye to Victor's...less than legal activities, and in return, Victor keeps the underworld of Gotham in line and doesn't target Jim.

"What do you want?" Jim repeats.

"Word has it that you are in a spot of trouble," Victor says. _How the-?_ "I'm here to offer my services."

Oh. Jim relaxes. Victor said services, so he must mean the case Jim's working on. Cautiously, he asks, "What's your price?" Victor blinks, the equivalent of confusion. Jim taps his foot. "Well? You said services, so I assume you want compensation."

Victor's face smooths out, and he seems- dare Jim say it- amused. "Not _that_ sort of- perhaps I wasn't clear enough; I ran into your friend, Detective Bullock, earlier. He mentioned your problem."

Jim mentally curses Harvey. "So...you're offering to pretend to be my date to save me from my mom's matchmaking?" he asks, disbelieving.

Victor grins, -and it should be unnerving, but Jim finds he is, frightening as the notion is, accustomed to it- and makes finger guns at him. "Bingo!"

"And what do you want in return?" Jim asks, suspiciously, and hurt flickers across the assassin's face, but it must be Jim's imagination.

Victor waves his hand dismissively. "That'll be decided later on."

"Well then," Jim exhales. "Since you're going to be here for a while- don't give me that look, we _are going to plan this out_ \- do you want anything _else_ to eat?" It's a deliberate jab at Victor, but the other only winks.

* * *

"Take a right onto Leighton Ave. in five hundred yards," The monotone of the GPS announces, and Jim blinks the tiredness away. His aunt lives down in Florida, right by the beach, but it's a long drive. In the passenger seat, Victor dozes lightly, a Guns & Ammo magazine spread open across his chest, rising and falling slightly with each breath he draws.

Despite the black on black, in the dusk light, the assassin seems almost...soft, if that's possible. The light of the setting sun behind the clouds plays along Victor's face, shading his cheekbones and casting half of his face into a light shadow. His dark lashes flutter lightly on his pale skin, a far cry from the usually intimidating assassin, and Jim realizes, with a start, that Victor must trust him a hell of a lot if he's willing to let his guard down.

Jim wonders when that happened.

However, it isn't to last, as the GPS states, loudly, "You have arrived at your destination," and Victor's eyes snap open and he tenses. He picks up the magazine, closes it, sits up and stretches, and Jim's reminded of a cat. "We're here," he states unnecessarily.

Victor hums, asks, "I thought this was a family get-together? It seems awfully late."

"It's more like a dinner party now since everyone's grown up," Jim replies, checking the rearview mirror as he backs into his aunt's driveway. There's a pause, hanging awkwardly in the humid air.

"So no disco music." Victor's tone is sad, and Jim bites back a laugh.

"No, but my aunt has cats."

At that, Victor brightens, and Jim thinks he looks, quite frankly, adorable. The look of excitement on Victor's face makes Jim want to melt, but instead, he pulls the key out of the ignition, opens the door and steps out, Victor following suit.

Despite not being in his usual getup, Victor still poses an intimidating- and handsome- figure, a black button-up shirt draped over his lean frame, that, coupled with his black dress pants and vest, accentuate his dark eyes. Jim steps forward and rings the doorbell.

After a minute of waiting, the door opens, and Jim's mother stands in the doorway. "Jim!" she greets, pulling him into a hug. She pulls back from the embrace, catches sight of Victor. "Oh! You must be-"

"Victor, ma'am," he greets, "Jim's spoken of you quite highly."

She blushes slightly, scolds, "Oh, you!" and leads them inside. The atmosphere is quiet and muted, the room lit with chandeliers that hang from the high ceiling, and the other members of the family sit around a large table, chatting quietly. Jim sits down near the end of the table, and Victor slides into the seat next to him.

Dinner itself goes smoothly, and Victor instantly becomes a favourite, giving funny quips and generally just blending into the conversation seamlessly. Somehow, within the hour, their hands become interlaced, and Jim finds he doesn't mind at all.

It's after a few drinks that things start going south. Everyone's gotten up, split into groups, and Jim and Victor've drifted towards the edge of the room, seated together on the small sofa, Victor cooing to the longhaired Siamese in his lap. Jim is pleasantly buzzed, content to watch the other. Sadly, it isn't to last. Arthur appears, along with a few of his friends, a sneer on his face.

"So, how much is he paying you?" he asks Victor.

Victor freezes, turns to face Arthur. "Excuse me?" There's a darkness in his voice, but Arthur either doesn't hear it or doesn't head it.

"How much is he paying you?" Arthur repeats. "C'mon, man, there's no way a loser like him would ever be able to attract a catch like you."

Victor's hand moves towards his leg where Jim knows he has a gun hidden, a feral look in his eyes, and nope, Jim is _not_ going to let Victor shoot Arthur, no matter how annoying he is. Jim places his arm around Victor's shoulders, leans over and whispers, "Victor, _do not_ shoot him."

Victor remains undeterred, glaring at Arthur and his friends, and in a last-ditch attempt to stop the assassin from causing a commotion, Jim leans forward and presses his lips to Victor's. It has the desired effect, as Victor stops reaching for his gun, hand going slack, and one of Arthur's friends makes a small noise of disgust before they wander off. Jim pulls back after a moment, and he can feel the flush on his cheeks. Victor remains unruffled, and Jim feels something within him shrivel up and die.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean…" he says, averts his gaze; god, Victor's probably ready to kill him. He wonders, briefly, if fleeing now would be a viable option, but no, he can't just _leave_ Victor to figure out a way get back to Gotham by himself, so Jim sucks it up, pastes a pleasant expression on his face, and asks, "Would you like another piece of cake?"

Victor regards him oddly for the briefest fraction of a second before his face smoothes out. "Nah, I can get it myself," and carefully sets the cat down, and moves off to the kitchen, leaving Jim alone and markedly off-kilter.

Afterwards, it's coming up on midnight, and half of the people are gone, so they bid their goodbyes and walk down the driveway to the car. "I'll drive," Victor offers stiltedly.

"No, it's fine, I can drive- considering as how I dragged you along with me, I should be driving," Jim argues. Victor looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, instead nodding and getting into the passenger seat. Since Jim was aware that it would be late when the party ended, he's already called in to the nearest hotel. Though the drive isn't far, it's still stifling, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Victor certainly looks ready to try.

* * *

When Jim wakes up, the sun hasn't yet come up, and he stretches, yawns, and turns on the bedside lamp-

And stifles a small shriek of surprise. There, at the foot of the bed, Victor is balanced on an ottoman, rocking back and forward lightly, a bouquet of pink roses held tenderly in his hands.

"What are you- are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?!" Jim exclaims. Somehow, his utterance startles the other, and Victor crashes to the ground gracelessly, landing splayed on the carpet. Jim covers his mouth, tries to hide the laughter bubbling up, but it's a lost cause- the usually graceful assassin is laying on the floor, pouting at him, and, well, it's kind of adorable.

Jim clears his throat, pretends not to notice as Victor clambers back up. "I take it that there's a reason why I woke up with a flower-bearing hitman at the foot of my bed?"

Victor fidgets. Coughs. Mumbles something.

"Sorry, what?" Jim asks, "I didn't catch that.

"Are you free for dinner sometime."

There's a moment of silence, and Jim laughs, doubles over, wipes away tears. Victor stands, fozen.

"No...no, I- erm, it's just funny that you asked me out _after_ I introduced you to my mom as my boyfriend," Jim says, still gasping for breath.

"So is that a yes?"

Jim sits up, "Well, you brought me flowers, which is more than any of my other dates. And you're cute, so yeah. It's a yes."


	11. Chapter 11

**_Title: Till death do us part_**

 ** _Rating: K_**

* * *

There's a second before, when Jim sees Jervis Tetch, his face contorted into a snarl of hate, before there's a beep, cold and impersonal, and a cloud of red gas encompasses him. Instantly, his guard is up- Tetch's usual modus operandi is powder, à la Red Queen, but he's teamed up with Crane- Scarecrow.

Jim has come in contact with Crane's fear-gas, and, needless to say, though that was a mere prototype, it wasn't pleasant.

Dread fills him, growing as the seconds tick by, and nothing happens, save for him losing sight of Tetch in a coughing fit that occurs as soon as the gas hits, and he feels his heart-rate spike. In his experience, the longer something takes to affect you, the worst, and longer-lasting, the effects are.

However, after he counts out four minutes, and nothing happens, his guard lowers slowly, heart-rate returning to a resting rate of sixty beats per minute. He lets out a sigh of relief. It must be a prototype that failed, or Tetch's powder nullified the effects of whatever gas Crane used, he thinks, picks up his phone, and goes to call Ed to let his boyfriend know that he's fine, standard procedure when Jim takes on the more risky criminals-

and stops cold. There, the numbers on his wrist, the numbers that denote Ed's death, read, 0:0:15:02, then 0:0:15:01, then 0:0:15:0. Fear seizes him- Edward Nygma, his boyfriend, his soulmate, has fifteen minutes to live. It's his worst nightmare come to life, and he breaks into a sprint, the phone already ringing, racing to get out of the maze-like building, back to Ed.

"Jim?" Ed picks up, puzzled, "Are you okay? What's up? Are you okay?"

Jim wants to laugh, hysterical- Ed's going to die in twelve and a half minutes, and he's more worried about Jim. "No, I'm fine, but Ed," he stops, at a loss, and there's so many things he wants to say, but all he can croak out is, "I can't let you die."

"What?" Ed's puzzled, "Jim, what on earth-? What do you-?"

"I can't- I'm sorry- I- I," Jim's hyperventilating now, mind frenzied, and no, nononono, NO, Ed can't die, not now.

"Jim? Where are you?" Ed asks, and now he sounds scared, "Jim? Tell me where you are- please, darling, tell me where you are- I'm getting scared, Jim," and that's what does it. Jim can't bear to have Ed scared- never.

He takes a deep breath, tries not to fall down the rabbit-hole of panic, because, ten minutes, "I- I'm on the second story," he croaks out, and he can hear Ed's footsteps in the background as he comforts Jim, instructs him to sit on the floor and breathe, in, out, in, come on Jim, breathe in with me, and it almost distracts Jim from the rapidly decreasing numbers, five minutes.

There's a patter of footsteps, and Ed's getting closer to Jim, and then there's a gunshot-

pain. Pain, radiating from his left shoulder, and then another, and Ed falls, falls, falls, lands in Jim's lap, the blood, crimson and wet and metallic, seeps over Jim's skin. Ed's eyes, so bright and excited, are dull. Jim lets out a wild howl, pain, rage, fear-

"-Jim, Jim!" Someone's shaking him, and he bolts upright, eyes wide.

There, shaking him to wakefulness, is Edward Nygma, hair tousled, expression worried, and Jim lets out a gasp of disbelief, and lets out a laugh of disbelief. "It was a hallucination," he whispers, once, then, again, louder. "Oh, Ed, it was a hallucination!" He buries his head in the other's shoulder, little gasps and shudders wracking his frame.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," Ed comforts, "what happened?"

"Nothing," Jim replies, muffled, and, checks, discreetly, his wrist. 29200:40:5:6. "Nothing's wrong at all."


	12. Chapter 12

**_Title: I hold you tight straight through the daylight (I'm right here)_**

 ** _Rating: K+_**

* * *

The first thing he feels when he opens his eyes is black; everywhere is black, like a void, abyssal, and frigid. He tries to move, and fails, limbs frozen, locked in place, and he tries not to panic, despite the dark pressing in from every direction, blanketing his skin, _seeping under it and into his bones_. If he could, he'd start retching; the feel of the cold tendrils of the void is so clearly _wrong_ on the most basic level, and something in him, passed down generations, from the dawn of time, screams in protest at its very existence, terrified.

Everything seems to be slipping away; he's hard-pressed to remember his own name, let alone who he is, something that would normally terrify him, but only garners a sense of apathy. There's something, though, that refuses to lessen its hold on his mind; a face, sharp and angular, green eyes framed by dark, meticulously styled hair; an emotion he can't name rises in him at the thought of the half-familiar face, one he can't name; it's cold but also warm, with lingering traces of sadness and the impression of silvery-blue whisps of _if only..._ and something deeper, a magma-hot burning sensation, and he thinks- or maybe, _it_ thinks? It isn't certain anymore, and what it is is a mystery to itself- might be called love, and a need to protect. its thoughts are cut off when a single pinprick of light appears above, a ray of green piercing the veil of darkness.

Instinctively, it tries to fight towards it, and, surprisingly, their-is-his-her limbs move, propelling towards the light. As it gets closer, the darkness transforms, slowly but surely, into a dark green, and finally, it breaks the surface, gasping, the tendrils of the void trying to drag it back down, and it fights harder than ever. Then, a shadow falls over it, and it looks up. It's a- the words seem to fall through a sieve, until there's none left, as one's daydreams are forgotten an instant later.

It tries to collect the words, thoughts, to describe the one above, and comes up lacking; for to describe the being, ethereal, would be as a mortal describing a god- no words could capture their entire being accurately; the only correct word would be awe-worthy, in all aspects. For what could it feel but awe for this being who pulled it from the dark abyss of the void? It is undeserving- that much it knows- and yet, this being, this raven-haired god has chosen to save it anyway. If it knew how, it would cry, overwhelmed by this strange compassion- for it is compassion, it can read it clearly on the god's face, and it stagers it, for it cannot remember anyone having ever looked at it that way; it pulls at _something_ deep within it, and that feeling, the hot-cold-sad-happy feeling, is back.

"James," the god says, and it feels like being born again; it knows not whether it is James or simply an it, but if this god calls him James, then it can be James for this kind god. "James," the god says, again, softly, "you are safe." And it- James- believes the god.

The god reaches to James, and touches James, and grasps James, pulls James towards the god. The point of contact stings- and why wouldn't it? for this is an angel gripping a damned soul tight and raising it from perdition. The murky green waters recede, ceding James to the god's control.

James tries to raise his head to thank this god, his saviour, but a wave of exhaustion causes his head to lol to the side, eliciting a soft sigh from the god, a sound that twists inside of James, and he resolves to never do anything to make the god sad.

He wonders what happened to him, and, as if reading his thoughts, the god says, "You died, James. Theo Galavan shot you, and you died." There's something dark in that tone, but James thinks it's aimed to this Theo person. Thus, by default, James feels dark towards this Theo as well.

"Why?" James finally croaks out, afraid that he isn't being clear, but the god understands, eyes softening.

"Because you are my _friend_ , James," the god says simply, rolling the syllables so the word sounds reverent, and James thinks, _who am I, undeserving, to question a god?_


	13. Chapter 13

**_Title: How'd we end up in my neighbour's pool (upside-down with a perfect view?)_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

* * *

There's a bright light, shining through her closed eyelids, and Barbara groans, tries to roll away from the light, which-

bad idea. She bites back the bile rising in her throat at the movement; her mouth is parched, a bitter taste further augmented by the massive, not-at-all pleasant headache. Hangover, she deduces. Barbara lays still for what feels like an eternity before opening her eyes, squinting at the brightness.

Beside her, the bedsprings groan as something- someone- shifts, and there's a mumble or discontent; then an arm is tossed over her, and the reality of the situation hits her. She's in bed with someone else, hungover, wearing nothing but her underwear and bra, with no memory of what happened.

To make matters worse, her best friend Jim is passed out on the sofa in a similar state of undress, cuddled up with his boyfriend, Ed. She squeezes her eyes shut tightly and opens them again. Something about the room is familiar- Barbara stares at the couch, and feels a well of horror grow within her. She recognizes that pattern; all blue with velvety soft blue paisley patterning. It's Tabitha's couch.

Tabitha, who she has a small- huge- crush on. Tabitha, who is, to the best of her knowledge, most certainly the only person in her friend group who's straight. Tabitha, who is pressed up against her back.

Barbara isn't sober enough to deal with this.

Tabitha mumbles, "I can hear you thinking. Stop. 'S too loud. Go back to sleep," and presses a kiss between her shoulder blades and nuzzles her neck, resting her chin on Barbara's shoulder.

Perhaps she doesn't need to deal with it after all.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Title: Javawocky**_

 _ **Rating: T**_

* * *

The bell on the door tinkles, signalling the exit of the last customer of the day, and Jim flips the _Open_ sign so that it displays _Closed_ , and goes to grab the spray bottle and rags to wipe down the tables. As he wipes down the tables methodically, he thinks about how he's come to this point: James Gordon, owner of Javawocky Coffee, a small, but fairly busy little coffee shop.

To think that, once he'd been an up-and-coming GCPD detective. How times change; though, really, he can't complain- he's found his niche, found a family amongst his employees, and, he thinks, perhaps they, too, have found a family. He hopes they have.

The bell above the door tinkles again, and he turns to reprimand Selina for forgetting her phone, _again_ , "I thought I put a note-" and stops short. There's a man, breathing heavily, a hand pressed to his ribs, dressed in all black. "You're not Selina," Jim says, dumbly, and the man cracks a weak smile. Then, "Oh my gods, is that _blood?_ "

The man looks down, lifts his hand slightly, and clamps it back down when there's a stream of blood that leaves splatters of red on the floor. "Hmm," he says, "yes, I think it is."

Jim draws a sharp breath. "Did you get _shot_?" he asks, and the man looks to answer, only to collapse to the ground, and Jim's caught between panic and screaming. Thankfully, the part of his mind that's the sharp, focused bit that he had to train into himself when he was in the army, because if you panic on the field, people die, takes over, and kneels and unzips the man's jacket, untucks and unbuttons his shirt, pulls out his pocket knife and makes a cut into the fabric, rips off a strip, binds it tightly around the wound, repeats the process until the red stops seeping through the fabric, and picks the man up and carries him up the stairs to his apartment.

After that, it's a blur of cleaning, rebandaging and rebinding the wound that leaves Jim feeling exhausted. He goes back to the bathroom, this time to wash the blood off of his hands, and looks at himself in the mirror. His hair's dishevelled, his eyes are wild and there're splatters of blood on his face. To be frank, he looks awful. He wets his hands, then soaps them up and washes them again and again until the bloodstains wash away from his skin, and splashes water on his face and then soaps it and washes away the specks of blood and dries his face and hands on the soft, cream-coloured towel above the sink. His hands are shaking.

He opens the bathroom door, goes back to his bedroom and checks on the man. As he checks to mack sure the wound hasn't started bleeding again, something nags at the back of his mind, and he takes a minute to look at the man's face. For some reason, it seems familiar. Then, it clicks. Dark clothes, guns, those are all things that the common Gothamite wears, but there's one thing that the everyday Gothamite- or even the common criminal- would have. There, tucked into the man's breast pocket, is a small white pocket-square, embroidered with a purple umbrella.

There's only one man other than Mayor Oswald Cobblepot who ever wears a white pocket-square with a purple umbrella. His bodyguard- and, if rumours are to be believed, and, this is Gotham, so most rumours are true- personal assassin, Victor Zsasz.

This is really, really, _really_ bad. Sure, Jim voted for Cobblepot, hell, he thought the man was a fantastic choice, but, well, to say they have _history_ would be putting it lightly. In fact, the last thing Jim ever did as a GCPD detective was to help Cobblepot escape death, an action that later caused Falcone to pull strings and get him fired. To be honest, Jim bears no ill-will towards the man, but a conversation after this long is bound to be tense and terse.

Jim stifles a groan. And he had thought that, for once, things were going good for him. But, because he's not a cruel person, he carefully- gently, softly, to not disturb- riffles through Zsasz's pockets, looking for his phone- and bites back a gasping laugh because it's a fucking flip-phone because of _course_ it is.

It isn't passcode protected, though, so it takes Jim under forty seconds to scroll down the list of contacts and eliminates some- because there's no way in Hell Zsasz would have Oswald Cobblepot's number saved as Hot Danm…probably- leaving him with a single contact labelled Enguinpa. Jim rolls his eyes- penguin in pig-latin. How original- and crosses his fingers before he hits the call button, hoping it's the right contact, because some of those contact names leave Jim feeling uncomfortable.

After just three rings, the person on the other side picks up with an exasperated yet fond, "What is it now Victor."

"Victor is, I'm afraid, currently unavailable. As in, he's passed out in my bed and bandaged up, because he was _shot_."

"What?" Cobblepot, because that's the only person it could be, practically screeches. "Is he okay?"

Jim rolls his eyes. Honestly. "Yes, he's just fine. Not. He was fucking _shot_. He's not dying, but he _was_."

Cobblepot lets out a breath of relief. "Good, okay. By the by, who happened to save my dumbass boyfriend's life?"

From in the background, someone yells, "Victor _what?_ I am going to strangle him when he gets back here." It sounds suspiciously like Ed, Cobblepot's Chief of Staff.

Hmm. So the rumours _are_ true. Huh. "That would be me, James Gordon, owner of Javawocky Coffee."

"Ja-?" Cobblepot starts to say, before there's a _thunk_ and muffled voices, and the sound of someone picking up the phone again.

"Jim," says Edward, "Please tell me that that dumbass didn't go and get himself _shot_."

"...he didn't get himself shot," Jim says, and Ed sighs.

"You're a terrible liar," he complains, "we'll be over there momentarily."

"See you then," Jim replies, "and don't forget to pick up pizza along the way. I doubt Victor'll die if you're a few minutes late."

"Aww," Ed cooes, "such a romantic."

Jim rolls his eyes. "Come get your other boyfriend, Ed," he says, "And tell Cobblepot that he's welcome to come along, if only to yell at his boyfriend with you."


	15. Chapter 15

_**Title: You played around, thought yourself so smart (never thought you'd break my heart)**_

 _ **Rating: T**_

* * *

There is a flicker, and then, it appears again. Jonathan sighs internally as he feels the familiar miasma of horror float of it, wondering when his mind will stop playing tricks on him. It moves, blade in hand and Jonathan stops his instinctive flinch.

It cocks its head. "Why do you not move?" Its voice is deeper than he had expected, almost the same as-

no.

"Ah, and now my mind chooses to speak!" Jon laughs bitterly, spreads his arms wide, "well, have at me- go on, stab me, it wouldn't be anything new." The sentence rings in the small, dark apartment room, like a sharp metal blade dragging across a steel surface.

"...what?"

Jon rolls his eyes, really, "You aren't fooling me- I know a hallucination when I see one, pretender." Disgust. "My mind is so...was so fixated on gaining your attention that I never thought to check my sources. Ra's al Ghul...he tricked me. He left me to carry out his dirty work, to take the blame for him. And now, my mind, once brilliant can barely summon up anything other than pity," he sneers. Advances on the figure, eyes wild. "Because that's all I ever deserved. And my mind conjures up- you, in a wild attempt to remind me of what I once had. Of who I once had."

The floor seems to be tilting, and Jon's so tired, tired of this, this thing he's become, half sane and three million miles into Hell. "Just...go," he says, tires, hands dropping to his sides and unclenching. Weary.

It looks at him, once, and the darkness flickers, for a second, pity shining through, before it disappears, taking his will to live along, out the window into the dark, cold Gotham night, leaving an icy breeze behind.

* * *

When Jon awakes, it's in a dark room. Damp. His head swims, muscles screaming when he moves, and. He cracks his eyes open. In front of him, not an empty Fear Toxin container, but a huge computer screen, off. When he raises his hand, slightly, he flinches, the dark, Kevlar-like material cloaking his arm, his hand, his entire being like a nightmare.

Jon bites back the scream clawing at his throat. Tries to calm down. This would hardly be the worst thing he's experienced while dosed. He tries to sit up. Nearly empties his stomach, bile rising in his oesophagus like dark waves.

"N-no," he whispers, hoarse, deeper than he's expected, and. Fear. Fear, for once, of what is and not of what isn't. Rips off one of the gauntlets on his- not his arm, stares at the red tally mark on the back of the wrist, uncomprehending. Scratches at it, tries to claw it off to no avail, the red mark showing through the bleeding skin. "No," he repeats again, "no, no, no nononono." Because-

That's his mark. His mark on the Bat's wrist.

no.

It can't be true.

There's no gods-damned way for the Bat to have fallen in love with him- no way he could've. And that mark, the red slash of pigment- he's only ever seen it on another's skin once.

When he was younger, foolish. Naive enough to think that he could ever have anything good- could ever be happy.

The last time Jon saw that line on anyone else's skin- the only other person's skin he's ever seen it on before, save his own- it was

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Playboy. Kind. Lover. Loyal to Jon, or so he'd thought.

Isn't it nasty to have your illusions of others shattered? And, make no mistake, walking in on Selina Kyle with Bruce pinned to the bed beneath her, half naked, whip in hand, did shatter him.

Shattered his trust. Left him to stumble, dazedly, to his room, pack his stuff and leave. Leave forever, leave behind the person he'd fallen in love with, whom he'd though respected and loved him in return. Left him in ruin, heartbroken, lead him to create the Fear Toxin and lead him to Ra's al Ghul.

Some days, he misses what he had. Achingly. Others are spent in a stupor of drugs or alcohol, anything to numb the pain.

Exhausted, he slumps back, falls asleep, cowl on.


	16. Chapter 16

**_Title: Only fools (fall for you)_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

* * *

There's an adage about the heart wanting what it cannot have, Ed thinks, but with the way the Detective's smile engulfs his being in warmth, he isn't sure he wants to try and get over this. This, well, whatever this is. At this point, he reacts a bit too much for it to fit suitably under the 'admiration' category, if the quickening of his pulse is any indication. Oh, how his father would've berated him- but then, what is Ed but his own useless attempts to fit into the society around him?

The Riddler chuckles, whispers, "If only you'd let me out, Ed…why, you can have everything you want- even Jim sitting at your feet-" draws up an image of an Ed dressed in black seated upon a throne ringed with flames, the Detective sitting between his legs, head bent back into his lap, an ornate silver collar with a blood-red-ruby around his neck, Ed's fingers combing through his hair-

Ed blushes scarlet, glares at the Riddler and hisses, "Shut up!"

The Riddler quirks an eyebrow and shrugs. "It's not as if you don't want him- you're just a pathetic coward."

Ed scowls, snaps, "No. I simply have a healthy respect for the Detective's- that's not- he's straight! And I'm not about to-" he shudders. "I'm not going to- to degrade him like that!"

The other laughs softly, says, "You keep acting like you aren't gone on him as if it'll be true one day," and disappears, leaving a frustrated Ed alone.


	17. Chapter 17

**_Title: Aubade_**

 ** _Rating: K+_**

* * *

The cell is dark, dank. The water drips, ominously, paints a morbid tableau of the room and its sole inhabitant; Oswald, himself, is in little better shape than the cell he's in- mind fried, practically, though it's no surprise given the regular electro-shock therapy Strange subjects him to and the animosity and aggressiveness from the other inmates that leave flowery bruises on his skin, a fine line between beauty and pain, as his mother would say. Oh, mother. His vision flickers, the room flashing in and out of monochrome and vibrance alternatingly. He wonders what his mother would say if she saw him now, brought low like this, and thinks she'd wrap him up in a hug and a sweater, console him, tell him it was hardly his fault for trusting Jim Gordon, because that's how she shows she cares. Showed.

Jim Gordon. Oswald feels like choking out a sardonic laugh. The one man he trusted, the man he saved, who he _lied for_. The man who left him here, in this hellhole, where he can feel his sanity, fragile though it was originally, slipping away with each pulse of electricity sent into his cranium, rewriting his neural pathways and warping him into something unrecognizable to even himself. The taping, louder this time, wrenches his mind away from his thoughts, and he tenses; it's not the steady _drip-drip-drip_ of water, rather, louder, more scraping, like footsteps, and there're two possibilities: either it's the other inmates come to grow more delicate, green-blue-purple-black blossoms across his skin or Strange's thugs, here to drag him back to The Room. He's not sure which would be worse. Perhaps, given the way the electroshock therapy is warping his very self, he prefers being beaten. After all, that, at least, is a one-hundred-percent physical feeling he can focus on.

Sadly, if that's a term he can apply, because by now, he's crossed from emotion to a mixture of total apathy and all-consuming fear, it's Strange, himself, an oily smile stretched across his face, a sadistic glee in his eyes, who places a hand on the panel beside the cell, which, Oswald knows, given the number of times the _good doctor_ has taunted him with the knowledge, is keyed to Stange, and only Strange's, DNA, as the good doctor tells him the first few time he tries to raise a complaint about being used as a punching bag by the other inmates. It glows green, a small pop sounding that indicates the electricity running through the bars has been turned off, and then the _pshhh-click_ of the pistons activating to raise the bars. Oswald raises his head slightly from the small, uncomfortable bed he's strapped to, drops it again, the execution exhausting him, and Strange signals to the two thugs behind him to undo Oswald's bindings and there's a click of keys in locks and his bindings fall away, and the two thugs grab him, roughly, practically dragging him to The Room, ignoring his weak whimpers of pain when his bad leg his against the ground a bit too hard, sending a searing blades of pain up his leg.

This time, The Room is decorated even more spartanly than usually, with the chair sitting by itself in the middle of the small floor space, hooked up the power outlet, and the thugs strap Oswald into the chair, binding his wrists a bit too tight so that the metal digs into his skin. Strange lowers the metal cap strips over his head, and starts connecting the electrodes, sending daggers of fear into his mind, and he struggles and tries to scream but the bindings are too tight. Strange lowers the contraption over his head, stroking it lovingly, making Oswald recoil in disgust. Strange laughs, softly, and connects the rest of the pieces, flips the switch, and a million daggers of pain stab into his head, searing brands tearing away at his neural pathways, and there's a cacophony of pained screams around him.

They're his screams, he realizes.

Then, abruptly, the electric shock stops, leaving the phantom echoes of pain. Oswald instinctively tenses up in anticipation of the next one, and, without his permission, words burst from his mouth as they always do, eyes squeezed shut, "Please, please, stop, _please stop I'll do anything you want_ just _make it stop_!"

A sharp intake of breath, and there's a whispered, "Oh, Oswald, what have they _done_ to you?" Someone starts undoing his bindings, and he instinctively flinches, but the touch is gentle, and the person gathers him into their arms, carefully. Exhausted, he lets himself drift off into sleep, uncaring of what happens to him next.

* * *

When he gets Oswald back to his apartment with Ed's help, the soft light of the full moon is creeping over structures, illuminating Gotham in a way that takes off the dark, sharp edges of the city, making it look almost soft and inviting. Thankfully, though, there's no one out, just as Ed had calculated, so he doesn't have to worry about someone calling the police on him.

Ed helps him get Oswald settled into the bed, and Jim cleans his wounds, binding and bandaging and, even stitching, in one case. By the end, he's exhausted, and he sends a worried Ed home, and collapses on the sofa, pushing aside thoughts of Strange coming after them, of proving that Oswald _was_ being tortured, of the fact that he's harbouring a criminal.

There's a small mumble and Jim snaps back to wakefulness, alert. Hours must've passed- the sun's rising, casting the apartment into soft, indistinct shadows. Jim gets up and makes his way to the bedroom. Oswald's awake, pale and vulnerable wrapped up in the sheets, tear-tracks on his cheeks.

"Oswald? Are you okay?" Jim asks softly, and Oswald's eyes focus, confused.

He raises a hand to his hairline, asks, voice trembling, "James? Where are...where am I?"The frailty of his voice is striking- Jim is so used to Oswald confidant, always six steps ahead, and it gives him pause.

"You're...my apartment." Jim replies, then continues, voice cracking slightly, "I-I'm sorry, Oswald. I should've believed you when you said they were torturing you-"

Oswald raises a hand to stop him. "Your apology is appreciated," he says fimly. "You genuinely believed that I was lying, and I can hardly blame you. But that doesn't mean that I forgive you."

"I understand, Oswald," Jim says, because he does, even if he feels slightly hurt. "You have a right to be angry- to not forgive me. I just...I'm sorry that my actions led you to get hurt."

Oswald's expression softens, and he draws back the covers. "Come lie down, James. The sofa is hardly a comfortable place to sleep and you look dead on your feet," he says, continuing with "there's plenty of room for the both of us," when Jim opens his mouth to argue.

"Okay," Jim says grudgingly, and climbs under the covers, laying stiff as a board for a few minutes before exhaustion overtakes him.

From where he's propped up, Oswald smiles softly, brushes the blonde hair- longer than he remembers- away from the other's face, and whispers, "Sleep well, James."


	18. Chapter 18

**_Title: In which Jim isn't a dick_**

 ** _Rating: T_**

* * *

The muted purples and reds of the setting sun, unusually beautiful for a Friday in February, spill through the Lounge's windows, bathing the sleek, modern interior in a warm glow. Oswald takes a sip from his glass, relishes the burn of the whiskey, perched on a barstool. Around him, patrons, seated in booths lined with plush, royal purple, chat away, creating a gentle background hum. The hour's early- the Lounge doesn't get busy until later at night, when the cover of darkness offers a sense of security to the rich and morally ambiguous. The Lounge's icy centrepiece looks almost contented somehow, though it might just be Oswald projecting. After all, he always did wish that things had turned out differently. It's the Lounge's fifth anniversary in three days- five years since he's acquired it from Barabara and Tabitha- or, as they refer to themselves, the Sirens.

In honour of the occasion, he's sent out an invitation to the appropriate socialites- and, as for the past four years, one to the now-Commissioner, Jim Gordon. And if that one just happens to be hand-signed, and written on the same paper as the invite to Oswald's first club, with a gold trim?

Well.

That's just a coincidence.

He feels a presence, someone sitting down on the barstool next to him, before he hears, "One Rainbow, please."

"Jim, old friend!" he says, surprised. The animosity between them's faded in the past years, though, "I didn't expect to see you here." It's a bit- well, a lot- pleasing, actually, to imagine that Jim might be here for non-GCPD related reasons, and, judging by the fact that Jim's ordered a drink, Oswald can't imagine that he is here for GCPD-related reasons.

Jim smiles sheepishly. "I'm sorry- do I know you?"

Oswald blinks, then, anger. "You- you! How dare you, Jim Gordon? You have the- the audacity to come to my club and act like you don't know who I am? And after everything I've done for you!"

"I-"

Smack!

Jim looks stunned, raises a hand to his cheek. It infuriates Oswald, a white-hot, burning rage. It's further exacerbated by the clueless expression on Jim's face. Oswald grabs his cane, practically stomping up the stairs to his quarters, ignoring the way it makes pain shoot up his bad leg.

* * *

The night of the anniversary party, and Oswald's mood is still foul. Instead of pushing it to the back of his mind like he usually does, though, he's let the anger run through his blood, turning his veins icy-hot, and, as in all other instances, this leads to broken vases, cups, and, notably, an incredibly kitschy set of tortoise teacups that once belonged to Grace. Those, Oswald throws out the window.

Eventually- though not before four unfortunate staff try to get him to come down- Oswald pulls on a dark-grey pinstriped suit and a black tie, inspects himself in the full-sized, ceiling-to-floor mirror, and, deeming himself presentable, makes his way down to the Lounge- after all, he does have a speech to give, and no one, godsdamn Commissioner, or otherwise, is going to stop him.

When he enters, a hush falls over the Lounge, silent, save for the click, click of the metal of his cane hitting the floor. Oswald smirks to himself as he surveys the assembled. After a lifetime of conniving and scheming, he now has the reputation, the influence, the power he's always dreamed of, the ability to silence the masses simply with his presence.

Victory tastes so, so good.

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Others!" His voice carries effortlessly, soft but commanding instant attention. "It is my privilege to welcome you all to the Iceberg Lounge on this very special day- the fifth anniversary of this fine establishment! Please, do enjoy yourselves- after all, what would the Lounge be without its patrons?" His speech is met with thunderous applause, and Oswald bows slightly, flashes a smile. "Thank you, thank you all!" The audience starts to disperse, and he winces as an unexpected stab of pain shoots up his leg.

Suddenly, there's a bang, and sharp pain in his abdomen. Oswald presses a hand to the spot, feels warm liquid spilling out over his fingers, pulls his hand away. Blinks in surprise at the glistening, wet, ruby-red blood coating his fingers, and feels his knees buckle, cane dropping from his hand and hitting the floor with a slow, echoing clang.

He falls backwards, the screams of those around him muted, as if he's underwater again, drowning, and chokes back a bout of hysterical laughter, the bright lights swimming and making his head pound, black spots floating across his vision. The floor is cold against his skin, grounding, almost.

Someone's kneeling by his side, pressing against the bullet wound, their voice cracking, and he thinks they might be begging him to stay awake. He wants to ask why.

His last thought before slipping into darkness is, who would possibly want me to live?

* * *

 _Darkness. Cold. Frigid-_

 _He gasps, eyes snapping open. Tendrils of red float around him, frozen in time and space, suspended in the icy waters. His lungs burn as water fills them, chocking him._

 _Through the curtain of blue-black, he can see a hazy outline, two figures standing, one short, one tall. Then, movement. His body jerks, and he's standing on the docks, Ed in front of him. A sneer, and, "I could never love you. Who would ever care about a freakshow like you?"_

 _The words bite deep, and even though Oswald knows what's about to happen, he still flinches in surprise when Ed whips the gun out, lodges a bullet in him, still brings a shaking hand to cover the wound, still feels pain and grief when Ed grabs him, pulls him close for just a moment, a sneer on his face, and pushes him back into the water._

 _The waters morph, and this time he's standing on the docks, this time with Jim, gun pressed to his head. Jim leans in close to his ear and growls, "Gotham's better off without you."_

 _Oswald's eyes widen in fear for just a second, and the gun goes off-_

He bolts upright, the lights bright and burning, shaking. The heart-rate monitor picks up, loud and fast, and a woman rushes into the room, calming words having no effect. His breaths are quick and gasping, and panic makes his blood pound loudly in his ears.

She gives up, and pulls a syringe from a tray, and Oswald tries to get up, get away, but someone else grabs his arms, holds him down for long enough that the woman can jab the needle into his neck and the room swims again, a dizzy feeling overcoming him, and he slumps back onto the bed-

 _The bang of the gun rings through the damp cell, and a moment of silence before it all hits. Oswald screams in anger, pain, grief, and everything freezes for a moment, rewind. Rewind, and his mom's standing now as he kneels, her eyes dark._

 _"How could you?" she asks, and as she speaks, blood wells up out of the wound, pours out of her mouth. "How could you? You brought this upon me."_

 _The words are like bullets, piercing every one of his defences, and hot tears prick his eyes. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispers, brokenly, "I-"_

 _"You killed me!"_

 _The gun goes off again, but this time, he's the one catching the bullet, doubling over as he chokes to death on his own blood-_

He gasps back awake, panting, and someone moves in his peripheral vision, says- asks?- "Can I see him?" The other person says something, a denial, judging by the increase in volume in the next sentence: "Damnit, I've been waiting for over a week for him to stabilize, the least you can do is let me see that he's alright!"

Jim.

A swell of- something, rises in Oswald, a mixture of anger, fear, and something he can't name. Apparently, though, Jim gets his way (as usual, Oswald thinks, sardonic) and a moment later, footsteps signal his approach. The footsteps falter a few feet away from the hospital bed, and Oswald rolls over, painfully, to face the other.

"Um- hi," Jim says, then grimaces when Oswald goes to answer and instead starts to hack up a lung. "Here- let me help," he says, helps to prop him up on the pillows, then hands him a glass of water from the bedside table.

"What-" Oswald goes to speak again, then takes another sip of water when the words catch, a cough tickling the back of his throat. "What are you doing here? I thought you were pretending not to know me?" It comes out bitter, and Jim winces. Oswald can't bring himself to feel bad.

Jim fidgets for a minute, shamefaced, before he says, quietly, "I'm sorry. I- you know that Tetch was loose, right? Well, um, I was the one doing the mandatory Arkham patrol that night and-" he pauses, clears his throat, "Tetch whammied me- made me forget everyone I care about." The last bit is quiet, more like a whispered confession, and Jim drops his eyes to the floor.

Oswald blinks, taken aback. "Oh."

"Yeah. I kinda snapped back when you were shot though- good thing, too, since I was the only one other than Victor- Zsasz, that is- with any sort of first aid knowledge." Jim grins sheepishly. "So- uh, I'm sorry for making you think that I would try and pretend not to know you- and that you got shot, too, obviously."

The last bit barely registers though, because, "If you forgot about everyone you care about, then why'd you forget me?"

Jim freezes, ears reddening and a blush spreading across his cheeks. "I-I-" he stutters, swallows. "I care about you, Oswald. Deeply."

Oswald's the one frozen this time, before he croaks out, "Then why'd you always push me away?"

Jim's expression darkens. "I was an asshole when I was younger. I thought that life was black and white, and whenever I encountered anything- anyone- who challenged that belief, I tried to convince myself that I was just being mislead. And then- when you were mayor you disappeared and I couldn't think straight, worrying about you, and when I found out you were alive, I tried to push you away- tried to protect myself from ever being hurt like that again." It's a quiet admission, layered in guilt.

"Oh," Oswald breathes, "Jim."

Jim gives a self-depreciating smile. "Yeah- I'm an idiot and an ass, I know. And- I understand if you never want to talk to me again just- please know that I don't hate you. Don't want you dead." His expression is one of pained acceptance. And, well.

"Come here and kiss me, Jim, you silly man," Oswald says, and surprise flits over the other's face before he leans in and kisses Oswald softly.


End file.
